


negotiable

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: Actor RPF, The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:51:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Richard and Graham have a conversation in a café. [or, the one where Richard is asexual and tries to work things out with Graham.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	negotiable

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this was written for a kink meme prompt that asked for:
> 
> _I'd love to see a story with Richard Armitage being asexual. Whether he works things out with a partner or is aromantic as well and just has to deal with a lot of unwanted attention is entirely up to you! (as is any other idea you may have.)_
> 
> I agonized over whether I handled this okay or not and I really hope it's not offensive to anyone because I absolutely didn't intend for it to be. <3

**ne·go·tia·ble**

**:** capable of being negotiated: as

**a :** transferable from one person to another by being delivered with or without endorsement so that the title passes to the transferee

**b :** capable of being traversed, dealt with, or accomplished

**c :** open to discussion or dispute

 

“Look,” Richard says, shifting in his seat and frowning at his untouched coffee, “about last night.”

“Ah,” Graham says, and grimaces because he’d sort of been hoping they could just go on like that hadn’t happened.

Richard’s eyes briefly flick up to scan Graham’s face before he lowers them again, and his frown deepens when he says, “I just wanted to apologise for leaving like that. I, um.” He clears his throat and can’t seem to sit still, and he looks so uncomfortable in the busy café that Graham wonders why he chose it as their meeting place at all.

“We don’t have to talk about this,” Graham says, and he wants to reach out and take Richard’s fidgeting hands into his own but he’s not sure the touch would be welcome.

Richard’s eyebrows contract and he seems to hunch in on himself a little, and he still won’t look at Graham. “Actually, we do,” he says, and the words sound tired and rueful and like he doesn’t really want to say them at all.

Graham wants to tell him that he doesn’t need to say anything he doesn’t want to share, but knowing Richard means knowing that he doesn’t often speak unless prompted to and that the slightest suggestion that someone doesn’t want to listen makes him close right up again. So Graham drinks his coffee and says nothing, and waits him out.

“I overreacted,” Richard says eventually, cradling his cup between his palms and holding it tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “Everything was happening very fast and I didn’t know how to say what I needed to and I panicked.” He looks up at Graham through his lashes, his posture communicating nothing but the desire to be smaller, and very clearly says, “I’m sorry.”

Graham nudges his foot under the table, and smiles when he’s nudged in return. “You could have just told me to stop, you know,” he says, and he means for it to be light-hearted but it makes Richard’s shoulders curl inwards as he pulls his leg back to re-establish the distance between them.

“I know,” he says unhappily, back to avoiding eye contact. “I’m sorry.”

“Quit apologising, will you?” Graham says, exasperated and oddly charmed at the same time. “It’s not like this is all your fault. I shouldn’t have been so pushy, even if you seemed to like the kissing.”

A brief, shy smile flashes over Richard’s features and lingers at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, and he sounds a bit embarrassed when he says, “Yeah, the kissing was good.”

Graham’s about to say that _see, no reason to be so worried_ when Richard’s soft expression hardens into something more resolute and the last traces of humour leave him.

“There’s something I need to say,” he begins, appearing to choose his words carefully, “and I’m not quite sure how to say it.”

“Take your time,” Graham says, and watches Richard rearrange everything that’s on the table into neat, precise patterns.

He builds a tiny wall out of packets of sugar and artificial sweetener between their cups, and his brow creases in concentration. “I’ve never,” he says quietly, then seems to reconsider and starts over. “I don’t do this.”

“What, with men?” Graham asks, and Richard shakes his head.

“No, in general,” he says, knocking the miniature wall down and nudging the scattered condiments away to one side. “I don’t,” he pauses to glance around and confirm nobody’s paying them any mind, then lowers his voice, “I don’t do sex.”

Graham can’t keep the frown off his face, and wonders yet again why they’re having this conversation in public. “You mean like celibate?” he asks, confused.

Richard shakes his head again and huffs out a frustrated breath, scratches at the stubble he’s been cultivating into a beard during their break in shooting and fiddles with his cup as he speaks. “No, it’s not that. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide I didn’t want to have sex,” he says, and meets Graham’s gaze head-on. “I’m not abstaining and it’s not a choice.”

“So, you just don’t want to have sex?” Graham asks, doing a piss-poor job of keeping the incredulity and the confusion out of his voice.

Richard shrugs, and looks away again as he takes a sip of the coffee Graham suspects he only ordered for appearance’s sake. “I don’t get,” he clears his throat, and the tips of his ears turn pink, “aroused.”

Graham blinks a few times, and Richard fidgets in his chair. “Not ever?”

“No,” Richard says, awkward and unnecessarily apologetic about it.

“So you’ve never,” Graham trails off and Richard glares at him, his body angling into something less nervous and more offensive.

“I’ve jerked off, if that’s what you’re asking,” Richard says harshly, suddenly angry, “and I get hard sometimes.”

Graham glances at the woman at the table next to them who’s just paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, and Richard deflates and crumples when he remembers where they are. He lets out a shuddering breath and pulls his cup closer to his chest, his forearms creating a protective barrier as if the worn porcelain holds so much more than semi-decent coffee.

There’s silence between them for a few moments, where Graham doesn’t know what to say because none of the things he can think of seem appropriate or inoffensive, and then Richard swallows audibly and says, “It has nothing to do with you. And I know everyone always says that, but it _doesn’t._ This is all me.” A muscle in his jaw jumps and he takes a deep breath, and then says quickly and quietly, “I don’t get attracted to people and I don’t feel the urge or desire to sleep with them and holding hands is about as far as you’ll get with me.” 

The words have an artificial quality to them, like he’s practiced them inside his head for longer than they’ve even known each other, and he looks smaller than he is, resigned and dejected and like he just wants this to be over.

Graham wants to make him less miserable but doesn’t know how, and he says, “Why go out with me, then?”

It makes Richard flinch and his hands clench around his cup again, and Graham wishes he wanted to take the question back as much as he wants to hear the answer. “I don’t know,” Richard admits, and he looks upset as soon as he’s said it. “I like spending time with you,” he says more softly, and stops avoiding Graham’s eye. “Just because I don’t feel _sexual_ attraction doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to you.”

“Right,” Graham says slowly, and Richard sighs.

“I know I’m making a mess of explaining this,” he says, and lets go of his coffee cup to put his open hands on the table between them, “but I really enjoyed last night and I’d like to do it again, as friends or whatever else you’re comfortable with.”

“Shouldn’t this be about what you’re comfortable with?” Graham asks, and Richard’s fingers curl into his palms where he’s holding empty air between them so he reaches out to catch them before they can retreat to clutching cups again.

Richard breathes deeply and his fingers twitch, like they want to squeeze Graham’s and he isn’t letting them. “I like being with you,” he says, voice low and rumbling, and a faint blush spreads from his ears down to where his throat disappears under the shirt’s collar. “And I do like the touching and the kissing, very much. Just not the,” he trails off, offering Graham a helpless shrug and an embarrassed half-smile.

“Just not the sex,” Graham finishes for him and Richard nods. “Alright.”

He blinks a few times, then frowns and parrots, “Alright? As in _alright_ alright?”

Graham nods, and most of the tension seems to leave Richard in a relieved exhale, his brow smoothing and a wide, surprised smile appearing.

“We should set boundaries,” Graham says, and squeezes Richard’s hands when the discomfort threatens to return. “What’s okay and what isn’t, that sort of thing. So we don’t get a repeat of last night just because I’m not sure where the line is.”

“Yeah,” Richard says, valiantly trying to sound calm despite the deepening of his flush. “We should.” He disentangles their fingers to take a small notepad and pen from his jacket pocket, and he looks sheepish when Graham raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “I like to be well-prepared,” he says by way of explanation, and Graham has to bite his tongue to avoid making the obvious joke because now he knows why those tend to make Richard uncomfortable.

They spend the rest of the afternoon sketching out this thing between them, tracing the boundaries in blue ballpoint pen on ruled paper, and Graham thinks he understands why they’re doing it here instead of in private: Richard asked him here to draw up a contract, to sign a treaty, and the café is neutral ground.

It should seem calculating and cold, but it doesn’t because it isn’t, and Graham interrupts Richard mid-sentence to say, “Can I kiss you?”

Richard’s mouth moves soundlessly for a moment, then he splutters, “What, now?”

“Now,” Graham confirms, and Richard shifts in his seat as he looks at the people around them and then ducks his head to hide his smile.

“Alright,” he murmurs, “but not on the mouth.”

Graham suppresses a snort and takes Richard’s hand in his own, and brings it up to his mouth to kiss the ink-smeared thumb. It makes Richard laugh and then kick him under the table, and the ease of it all makes the possibility of building something sturdier than a wall of sugar packets between them seem a little less remote.


End file.
